Page 3 of Broken Doll (Dirty Doll Ops #1)

I shouldn’t be nervous.

I don’t get nervous.

Nerves are for people who give a shit, who second-guess, who flinch.

I’ve spent years training that out of myself—every hesitation, every flicker of doubt, burned away in private rooms and tangled sheets.

And yet?—

When I woke up, the club clothes were gone—vanished like they never existed.

Instead, there was a sad little pile of prison-chic waiting for me: gray sweatpants, a white tank that looked three sizes too small, and tennis shoes so aggressively plain they screamed government-issue.

Someone had undressed me while I slept.

Stripped me bare and redressed me like a fucking doll.

I should've felt violated, but all I could think was: amateur move. If you want to break a woman who's been naked in front of half of Los Angeles, you'll need more than a peek at her tits.

Besides, I love showing off my tits. I’ll flash the motherfucking Pope on a Sunday just to cause a riot.

That’s who I am.

So, my response to whoever got the privilege of seeing me naked? You’re-fucking-welcome.

Next to the pathetic excuse for a wardrobe sat a tray of food that made airplane meals look like Michelin star cuisine. A hunk of bread that could double as a doorstop. Cheese so hard it could chip a tooth. And water in a plastic cup—not even the decency of a bottle.

Kill Bill vibes for sure. That scene where Uma's character trains with Pai Mei, surviving on rice and suffering while she learns to punch through wood?

Yeah, that. Except I doubted Killion had any ancient wisdom to impart, just fresh ways to hurt.

I stretched, feeling yesterday's bruises bloom beneath my skin, little purple flowers marking where fingers had dug too deep. My mouth still tasted like chemical aftermath, tongue thick and unwilling.

"Breakfast of champions," I muttered, tearing off a piece of bread that fought back. I chewed slowly, deliberately, staring directly at where I was certain a camera was hidden. Let them watch. Let them see I wouldn't beg for a fucking croissant.

If this was Killion's idea of breaking me, he'd seriously underestimated my tolerance for bullshit.

I'd lived on vodka and spite for three days in Ibiza. I'd survived my mother's cooking for sixteen years. This? This was amateur hour.

I pulled on the clothes, skin crawling as the rough fabric scraped against places used to silk and lace. The sweats hung low on my hips, but the tank clung like a second skin, my nipples visible through the thin cotton. Another power play. Make me feel exposed, vulnerable.

Two could play that game.

I stretched again, arms above my head, arching my back like a cat, letting whoever was watching get their money's worth.

Then I smiled—all teeth, no warmth—and flipped off the empty room.

"Try harder, Killion," I said to the walls.

"I've had hangovers more intimidating than this."

The door stayed shut. The silence stretched. And somewhere in that steel box, as I forced down another bite of that miserable excuse for food, I felt it—that twisted, sick little thrill that whispered: Bring it on .

About an hour later, the door opened, and a stone-faced cold fish of a woman gestured for me to follow. I wanted to quip, “I don’t come when I’m fingered,” but I could already tell, this woman doesn’t have a sense of humor, so I fall in line, if only because my curiosity is stronger than my good sense.

She took me to another door, opened it and pushed me through. “Rude,” I mutter, only to find Killion and another female sitting behind a metal desk bolted to the floor.

His clothes are simple—dark slacks, black boots polished to a dull sheen, a fitted long-sleeve shirt clinging to a body built for precision, for violence.

Muscle ripples beneath the fabric, not bulky but honed, every inch carved for a purpose I don’t want to name yet.

But it’s not his size that spikes my pulse, thudding hard against my throat. It’s the way he looks at me.

Not like a man looks at a woman—hungry, horny, amused. Not like a mark, a prize, or even a challenge. Like a problem he’s already solved.

A blueprint he’s memorized, every flaw and fracture laid bare before I’ve even opened my mouth. Like he knows what I’ll do before I do it, and he’s already three steps ahead, waiting for me to catch up.

I fucking hate that. Hate being predictable, hate the idea that he’s got me pinned before I’ve even swung.

My brain’s bouncing—did I miss something? A tell? A slip?—and it pisses me off, that itch I can’t scratch, that sense of being seen when I’m the one who’s supposed to see first.

So, I do what I do best. I play.

I let my stance go loose, hips swaying just enough, like I don’t feel the temperature drop ten degrees in his shadow. Like I’m not standing in front of a man who could probably snap my neck with two fingers and not break a sweat.

I smile, slow and lazy, shifting my weight onto one hip—a deliberate fuck-you to his locked-down, stone-faced intensity. “So,” I drawl, voice dripping like honey over gravel, “are we doing this or what?”

Nothing. Not a blink, not a twitch, just that eerie, perfect stillness. His eyes don’t waver—blue pools, bottomless, boring into me—and the silence stretches, heavy, suffocating.

My brain’s already jumping—say something else, push harder, crack him—but then he moves.

A single, precise tilt of his head, barely perceptible, like I’m an ant under a magnifying glass and he’s deciding whether to burn me.

And when he speaks, his voice cuts like a blade against my skin—low, measured, cold as steel. “If you think you can play me, you’ll find that you don’t even know the rules of this game. Now, listen closely. I don’t repeat myself.”

The words drop between us, sharp and final, a guillotine slicing through the air. My brow lifts, more reflex than thought as I straightened. “All right, so what’s the game we’re playing then?”

“The game where you do what I say, when I say, and you never question a goddamn word that comes out of my mouth” he says, not explaining, commanding. Each syllable lands like a hammer on glass. “You learn what I teach. You fuck up, I fix it. You disobey, I make sure you don’t do it again.” His eyes don’t leave mine, don’t soften—there’s no room for negotiation, no hint of give. “And if you prove a bad investment…I won’t waste time scrapping the project and starting new.”

A chill slides down my spine, hot and cold at once, prickling my skin, pooling low in my gut. I know this kind of man. I’ve fucked them—ridden them, broken them, left them panting.

The ones who own a room without trying, who don’t threaten because they don’t need to. Because they know they’ll win, every time, no question.

But this one? For the first time in a long fucking time, I’m not sure I’m the most dangerous thing breathing here. That realization stings, sharp and bitter, and I hate it—hate him, hate this room, hate the way my pulse won’t settle.

I tilt my chin up, lips curling, voice edged with a dare. “Meaning?”

Killion doesn’t hesitate. “You die —and there won’t be enough of your DNA in one place to identify you.”

The way he says it—calm, effortless, like stating the weather—sends a dark, dangerous thrill curling through me, twisting in my belly.

Well, that about sums it up. No room for misunderstanding this motherfucker.

I smile wider, slow and deliberate, running my tongue along the inside of my teeth, tasting the challenge. “We’ll see about that.”

This time, he reacts. It’s subtle—a faint tension in his jaw, a flicker in those cold eyes, a shift in his stance like a coiled spring tightening. It’s not much, but it’s there, and that? That’s a win. A crack in the armor, a thread I can pull.

Then he turns, nods toward a side door—steel, unmarked, ominous. “Let’s begin.”

And just like that, I’m not Landry James anymore. Not the wife, the cheater, the thrill-chaser. I’m a tool, a weapon, a thing to be shaped—or shattered.

The room beyond is a concrete box—gray, bare, lit by a single overhead bulb that buzzes faintly, casting stark shadows. The air’s colder here, damp, smelling of rust and old sweat.

Killion doesn’t sit. He stands, arms crossed, filling the space like a storm cloud. “Sit,” he says, and I do—because I’m playing along, not because I’m scared. The chair’s cold, biting through my pants, and the metal creaks under me, sharp against the silence.

The woman shifts in her chair, finally looking up from her clipboard to study me with clinical precision. Her eyes are slate-gray, dead as winter, scanning me like I'm merchandise at auction—assessing muscle tone, posture, the way I carry tension in my shoulders.

She doesn't speak, just rises with mechanical efficiency and circles me, pen tapping against her thigh. When she reaches behind me, I flinch—just barely, a microtwitch—and her mouth curves, not quite a smile but something darker. She scribbles a note, the scratch of her pen like nails on my spine. "Reactive," she murmurs to Killion, not to me, like I'm a lab rat they're discussing. "Good reflexes. Heightened awareness."

She reaches out without warning, fingers pressing into my bicep, then my shoulder, then the soft hollow beneath my jaw where my pulse hammers traitorously. "Decent physical foundation," she concludes, returning to her chair. "But too much attitude. We'll need to strip that away first."

I swat at her with a glare.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” I growl but she simply ignored me and shared a look with Killion as if to say, See?

What a hot mess before she returned to her seat to scribble more notes.

“Training starts now,” he says, voice flat.

“You’re here to learn. To obey. To execute. No questions, no improvising, no fucking around. You’re not a person anymore—you’re an asset. My asset.” He steps closer, looming, and the air feels thinner, harder to breathe.

“You’ll be taught to fight—hand-to-hand, knives, guns. You’ll learn to lie, to steal, to kill if I tell you to. You’ll do it clean, fast, and without blinking.”

My brain’s buzzing—fight?

Kill? What the fuck?

—but I keep my face blank, my hands steady on my thighs.

“Yeah, I get it, let’s start already,” I said, testing the water.

His eyes narrow, a mean glint in his eyes even as he chuckled.

“I’ll beat that smart-ass out of you, Landry James. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll move when I say, sleep when I say, fuck when I say—and thank me for the privilege. Every breath you take is mine now.”

The woman looks up, pen pausing, her gaze clinical, like she’s sizing up a slab of meat.

“Discipline’s non-negotiable,” she says, voice clipped, accent sharp—Eastern European, maybe.

“You’re taught once. You fail, you’re corrected. You disobey a direct order?” She sets the pen down, deliberate, the sound a soft clack that echoes.

“First time, you’re restrained—hands, feet, whatever it takes—until you learn. Second time, we take a finger. Third time, you’re done. No mess, no burial. Just gone.”

“You really should put that on the brochure —it’s a real selling point,” I quip, refusing to be intimidated.

Killion straightens, arms dropping to his sides.

“You’re not special. You’re not irreplaceable. You’re here because you fit—reckless, smart, no ties. But step out of line, and you’re ash. No warnings, no second chances past what she said. I don’t waste time on fuckups.”

My throat tightens, but I force a IDGAF grin, leaning back in the chair, crossing my legs slow and deliberate.

“Sounds like a party.”

He doesn’t smile.

“Stand.”

I do, the metal table legs scraping the concrete, the sound grating in the dead air.

He steps around the table, close now, towering without effort.

“First lesson: pain.” Before I can blink, his hand snaps out, gripping my wrist, twisting it behind my back in a single, fluid move.

Pain flares—sharp, white-hot—shooting up my arm, locking my shoulder.

I gasp, instinct kicking in, thrashing against him, but he’s a wall, unmovable.

“Fight it,” he says, voice calm, “and it gets worse.” He twists harder, and I bite my lip, tasting blood, refusing to cry out.

“This is control. You don’t have it—I do. You’ll learn to take it, to use it, or you’ll break under it.” He releases me, sudden and sharp, and I stumble, catching myself on the table, breath ragged.

The woman scribbles something, not looking up.

“Resilient,” she mutters.

“Good.”

Killion steps back, eyes cold.

“Everything from this point forward will be hell, but if you survive, you might be worth the price of your training. Don’t fucking disappoint me, Landry.”

My arm throbs, my chest burns, and my brain’s a mess—run, fight, scream—but I straighten, meet his gaze, and grin through the tears.

“Bring it.”

He nods, once, like he expected nothing less. “We will.”